I'm currently in the trenches of parenting--making memories...and mistakes. I have a sense that we are currently living the "good old days" with all three kids still at home. Our unique age spread means we are changing diapers, doing homecoming hair and forgetting to bring the soccer snacks--sometimes all in one day.
Perspective is not easy to find when one is knee deep in the thick of it.
Earlier this week I heard an amazing story of an African tribe--still alive. Strangely, in the Himba tribe, they count the birth date of the children, not from the day they are born or concieved but from the very day the mother decides to have the child.
So when a Himba woman decides to have a child, she goes off and sits under a tree by herself and listens until she can hear the song of the child who wants to come.
After she's heard the song of this child, she returns to the man who will be the child's father, and teaches him the song.
When they concieve the child, they sing the song of the child as a way of inviting the child to them.
When the mother becomes pregnant, she teaches that child's song to the midwies and the old women of the village so that when the child is born, the old women and the people gather around the baby and sing the song to welcome the child to the earth.
As the child grows, the other villagers are taught the child's song. If the child falls or gets hurt, someone picks up the child and sings his song to him. When the child does something wonderful, or goes through the rites of puberty--as a way of honoring them-- the people of the village sing his song to him.
In the Himba marriage ceremony, the bride and groom's songs are sung, together.
In the Himba tribe there is one other occasion when the child's song is is sung. If someone in the Himba tribe commits a crime or does something at odds with the Himba social norms, the villagers call him or her into the center of the village and the community forms a circle around the tribesperson. Then they sing their birth song to them. The Himba views correction not as a punishment, but as love and remembrance of identity. They believe when you remember your own song, you will have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.
And finally--when the someone from the Himba tribe is lying on their bed, ready to die, all the villagers that know their song come and sing, for the last time, that person's song.
This faraway story captured my heart.
I can't stop thinking about it.
Me and mine are ever so different from the Himba tribe but in some ways we are surprisingly the same. As I thought more about my own tribe and my brand of motherhood, my heart was filled with hallulujah.
In the literal sense, each of my babies have a 'welcome to the world' song. We've swaddled them in song since the first day of their lives. (I made Eric pack our cd player and I was the new mother playing music in the hospital room). Jaeda's song was Ella Fitzgerald's Blue Skies and Rhett's was Sweet Sweet Baby by Michelle Featherstone and from day one Sully's song has been Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. We've sung these songs over them to calm and comfort them. From the very start, music has filled our home because, music changes everything.
Somewhere along the way our babies started singing back to us. They each came with a specific song to sing to the world around them. A song of laughter and fun and spirited giggles. A song of humor and stubbornness and story. As their momma, I learned their music and celebrated the good and saw the bad. I memorized their strengths and took a long look at their weaknesses.
My Jaeda-girl's song is strong. Opinionated. She loves hard and loyaly and feels everything ever so intensely. She is insightful and full of art and music and written words. She wrestles with fear and other people's harsh judgements. She is a creator and justice seeker.
My Wonderboy sings a joyful song. He is a happy-ness bringer. Wherever he goes he spills words and ideas and wonder. He is grateful and sunny and curious. He consumes knowledge and loves a challenge. He is relentless but vulnerable to the sting of angry words. He can be proud and over-honest. He struggles when the spotlight isn't turned on him.
My Lionman is still teaching us his song. But oh does he ROAR! He is an ever-moving, ever-chasing, ever-learning little moonbeam. I have still have so much to learn about each of them. And yet everything they have shown me, I have memorized.
The right song changes everything. Music is powerful. The music they make is my favorite.
We are not the Himba tribe but none-the-less, I see pieces and parts of the Himba's song-centric parenting echoed in our lives.
Once when Jaeda was struggling hard with a cross-country move, we declared one Saturday Jaeda day. We looked through pictures of her as a baby and a child and told stories about her and ate all her favoirtes. We reminded her who she was. Once she remembered, nothing looked as scary. Not even a new school in a new state.
When our baby Sully arrived we noticed our Wonderboy went a little quiet. When Wonderboy gets quiet something is deeply wrong. We know this because we know him. A Wonderboy day was in order. A day where we looked at his baby pictures and watched his home videos and remembered him in a hundred tiny ways all day.
A particuarly Himba-like part of our parenting has always included introducing our kids to people who learned them.
People who love them.
People who know them.
People who call them back to themselves when they get lost.
People who call them up to more when they lose heart.
These people SEE them.
These people love us all boldly enough to speak into our lives and say, "You look like yourself, but you are acting like someone else."
This is our tribe.
We are ever adding to the tribe. One's tribe never stops growing. We have recently found lost parts of our tribe in our new little midwest town. I cannot tell you how good it feels to sit across from someone who snuggles your baby, laughs at your wordy 10 year old and truly and completely SEES your teenager (and loves them still). These newfound tribeswomen are people who are an important part of our everydays. They say 'me too' when tears fall over teen age mistakes. These Monday morning and Tuesday afternoon friends are the ones who take turns chasing the baby when I've grown tired--they are the same ones who celebrate my ten year old's triumphs. These are our people. We are learning their songs and we sing them ours.
Story stirs me.
The Himba story shook me. And made me want to be more. Made me want to lean in and listen to the songs around me...my kids and everyone else's too. This story gave me the gift of new sight. Perspective.
In times of celebration and in times of turmoil I want to help my kids recall their song and themselves.
I want to practice remembering my own music when it's tempting to forget.
I want to be firmly planted in a tribe that loves each other like the Himba--constantly calling each other up to who we are born to be.
I want to take this story with me and bury it deep into my everyday. I want to plant some Himba wisdom in my life and stand back and see how it grows.
